


Even the Deepest Scars

by cookiegirl



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Buffy Wishverse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-13 12:47:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14112657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cookiegirl/pseuds/cookiegirl
Summary: In an altered Wishverse, Buffy survives and Giles has the chance to get to know the Slayer who was once supposed to be his. But showing Buffy that she doesn't need to be alone isn't easy.





	Even the Deepest Scars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kay_obsessive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay_obsessive/gifts).



> Written for kay_obsessive's wonderful prompt: "something taking place in an altered Wishverse, where that Buffy survives and she and Giles have to figure each other out in such a grim world where they’re both already so jaded and world-weary from the start". Thank you for the inspiration, and I hope you like this <3
> 
> Also, I've altered the geography of Giles' apartment somewhat, for Reasons.

Wormwood. Rosemary. Horehound. A metal receptacle, a slow-burning flame. The incantation. All the elements of the summoning spell, present and correct.

And yet, Anyanka is not here. Something has gone wrong. 

All Giles has is a smoldering goblet on a desk, and a dark, empty apartment that smells of charred herbs and bitter smoke.

Giles swears, slams his hand down on the table and tries to think. He could try the spell for the third time, hope for a different outcome. Or -

Or he could do what he has wanted to do since Buffy Summers left his house, slamming the door behind her. He could follow her.

\-----

The plant is in chaos by the time Giles arrives. It is a writhing, screaming mass of fighting and feeding and fear. Humans are forcing their way from a cage, pushing and trampling over one another in their rush to escape; vampires are picking them off like cherries from the vine, drinking deep from one neck before tossing the body to the floor and moving on to the next.

Giles’ left hand tightens on his wooden cross, his right hand on his stake as he stands at the edge of the fray. He scans the crowd as quickly as he can - there’s Larry, over there, and there’s Oz, a few feet away from him, trying to hold the vampires off while people flee - but where is Buffy?

An explosion of dust catches his eye, and he turns, and sees her. 

For a moment, he is frozen, and can only watch. He’s read all of the Watchers’ diaries, heard all of the tales, done all the research on Slayers that can be done, but none of it has really prepared him for seeing one in action. She is undisciplined, her stance sloppy and her moves haphazard, but there is a strength and power in her that steals his breath. She takes down one vampire, and then another. A third, a fourth. The masses turn to dust in her wake.

Her eyes fix on a point in the distance, and Giles follows her gaze. The Master is approaching her, with something akin to a smile on his face.

She is focused on him completely now, unconcerned with the minor players. Giles watches her push vampires away as they crowd in on her; she only has eyes for the Master. And as Giles sees the two draw closer to each other, he jolts out of his reverie. Buffy is a Slayer, yes, but the Master is centuries-old and has outlasted generations of Slayers. This plan - of confronting him alone, without forethought or strategy or back-up, without anything other than a stake and an attitude - is foolhardy at best, and fatal at worst. 

He plunges into the crowd.

He loses sight of her briefly, and his heart thuds painfully against his chest. He thrusts the cross at the vampires that surround him and they shrink back, hissing, only to push in on him again as soon as the cross is directed the other way. But he is used to that; he has lived two long years in Sunnydale, and he knows how to fend them off. 

A minute later and the crowd breaks, and through the gap he glimpses the Master and Buffy as they come to face each other. The Master’s back is to Giles, but he can see Buffy’s face, can see the determination, the anticipation, the satisfaction of a kill she has already assumed will be hers. She doesn’t notice Giles, pushing forward through the remaining space between them, weaving his way through the throng.

Buffy swings at the Master, but he blocks her easily, swatting her away as if she were a fly. He raises his arm and backhands her, and Giles watches her head snap back sickeningly. It’s a hit that would have killed anyone but a Slayer.

Giles is so close now, just a few feet away, a single female vampire between him and the Master. He brings the cross up into her face, and she snarls and backs off, looking for easier prey. As the vampire moves away, Giles sees the Master, pulling a dazed-looking Buffy towards him by the shoulders. 

She is not resisting. The Master’s face is triumphant.

Giles lurches forward, something propelling him to move faster and harder than he ever has, and he doesn’t even have time to think before he has plunged his stake through the Master’s back, aiming it upwards to pierce his heart. He waits for the explosion of dust.

The Master roars, and turns on him. The stake protrudes from the front of his chest, just missing the place where his heart no longer beats. Giles was an inch out, if that.

Giles brings up the cross, but the Master bats it away, sending it clattering across the floor, and advances. Giles steps back, and stumbles, his feet tripping over each other, his heart in his mouth. He has no weapon, nothing to hold off the demon in front of him. This is the end, and all he can think is that he finally got his chance to help the Slayer, and he failed.

Then the Master stops in his tracks, a confused expression on his face, and time stands still. A second later, he disintegrates, his flesh crumbling away to dust. His skeleton hangs in the air for a moment, unsupported, then falls to the ground. 

Giles sways with relief.

As the dust clears, he sees Buffy, stake in one hand, the other hand rubbing her jaw where the Master hit her. She glances at Giles, then looks down at the pile of white bones on the floor between them.

“Huh,” she says. “That’s new.”

\-----

“We need to get these back to my apartment,” Giles says, looking at the Master’s bones. 

The plant is empty of both the undead and the living now, except for he and Buffy. The rest of the vampires scattered when they saw the death of their master, and Giles tasked Larry and Oz with the job of ensuring all surviving humans made it home safely. The authorities will be notified soon, no doubt, and police will arrive to dispose of the bodies, but he estimates they have some time before that happens.

“Seriously?” Buffy asks, toeing one of the bones with her boot. “Seems like he’s dead. Job done. Moving on time.”

“He must be properly buried,” Giles says. “The bones should be doused in holy water, there are rituals, there are… um, things. That must be done. I need to consult my books, but I’m certain there are steps to be taken to ensure none of his followers try to revive him.”

Buffy raises an eyebrow. “He looks unrevivable to me.”

“Miss Summers -”

“Buffy,” she corrects him. “I’m not a freaking debutante.”

“Buffy,” Giles says, and the word feels odd in his mouth: familiar and unfamiliar at once. He swallows. “We must be careful with a vampire of this magnitude. With any vampire that leaves behind a skeleton. Better safe than sorry, if you will.”

Buffy rolls her eyes. “Fine.” She glances around at the bodies on the floor and picks up a backpack lying near to one young man. She unzips the bag and empties the contents unceremoniously onto the floor. Textbooks, pens, a Sunnydale High-issued exercise book. Another student, gone.

Buffy is already piling the bones into the now-empty bag. When she is done, she drops it in front of Giles.

“Well, see ya around, Jeeves,” she says, and turns to leave.

Giles splutters. “Wait - wait. Miss - ah, Buffy. Where are you going?”

She turns back, folds her arms. “Back to where I came from. Cleveland.”

Giles reaches for something, anything, to say. “It’s the middle of the night.”

Buffy laughs, though it’s not a happy sound. “Nights are kinda my thing,” she points out.

“Still.” Giles rubs a hand over his face. “There’s a large amount of angry vampires nearby whose leader you’ve just killed. You should lie low, recover from your injuries -”

“I’m fine,” Buffy says, folding her arms across her chest.

Giles feels something that isn’t quite panic, but isn’t far off, rising in his chest. He has only just found her, and it all feels too quick, too brief, when he has waited so long. The right thing to do might be to let her go back to her own Watcher, but he can’t deny the need to keep her with him for a little longer. To see what the girl who was once supposed to be his own Slayer is really like.

“Could you at least carry these bones back to my place?” he says, clutching at straws. “I hurt my arm in the melee.” It’s not quite a lie; his arm is a little sore.

Buffy studies him for a moment, then shrugs and picks up the bag again. “If I find out you only wanted these bones for a weird conversation piece, I’m gonna be pissed,” she says as she heaves the bag over her shoulder.

\-----

“Can I make you a tea?” Giles asks as Buffy dumps the bag onto the floor of his apartment. “Or a coffee? I - I don’t have any sodas, I’m afraid, but -”

“I’m good,” she says. She stifles a yawn, and looks at the herbs and goblet on the table. “Summoning that Annabella chick didn’t work, huh?”

“Anyanka,” Giles says. “And, no. No better world for us, I’m afraid.”

Buffy shrugs. “Never thought there would be,” she says, but something crosses her face that makes Giles wonder whether she had entertained the hope.

“Guess I’m outta here, then,” she says, moving towards the door.

“Wait - if I may -” Giles catches up, takes her upper arm and gently steers her away from the entrance. “We could sorely use your skills around here for a while. The vampire community will be in anarchy with the Master’s death. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a power struggle that impacts on us all. And I don’t know what things are like in Cleveland, but Sunnydale is… we’re struggling here. The Master aside, we have an incredibly active Hellmouth, and -”

“Cleveland’s got a Hellmouth too,” Buffy says.

“So I hear. But -”

“It’s actually been kinda dead lately,” she says abruptly. 

“Dead?”

“Dead as in quiet. Not dead as in…” she draws a finger over her neck in a cutting motion, then turns away from Giles, slipping her arm out from under his hand. He hadn’t noticed he was still holding onto her, until suddenly he isn’t.

“If you’re not too busy, then…” 

Buffy shrugs. “Guess I could stay a couple days.” She looks around. “You got a guest room?”

“Uh -” Giles blinks. He hadn’t considered such practicalities. “I… have a box room. There’s a cot in it, but, there’s a few books…”

Buffy is already walking off in the direction of the bedrooms. She pushes open the door to the bathroom, the master bedroom, and then finds the box room.

“A few books?” she says, turning to give Giles an incredulous look.

“Yes, well.” Giles stands next to her in the doorway, surveying the small room that has books stacked on most of the floor space and several piles on the bed. “I haven’t had guests here for a while.” He pushes his glasses up his nose. “You can have my room, if you like, and I’ll -”

“No, it’s cool,” she says, entering the room and tipping some of the books off the bed. “I’ve slept in worse places.”

Giles frowns but doesn’t ask her to elaborate. He doubts she would, anyway.

“Can I get you anything?” he asks, shifting awkwardly as she arranges the room to her liking. “There are towels in the linen cupboard by the bathroom, and…” He trails off, not sure what else he has to offer.

“I’m good,” she says. “’Night, Jeeves.”

“Giles,” he corrects her, not for the first time, and she glances up at him, the edge of her lip quirking slightly.

“I know,” she says, then reaches over and closes the door.

Giles isn’t sure how long he stands there, staring at the door, wondering how he’s ended up with the Slayer sleeping at his house, but it’s longer than it should be before he turns away and goes to his own room.

\-----

Giles doesn’t expect to sleep. He expects to lie awake, waiting for the sound of the Slayer creeping out the front door, having changed her mind. He expects his brain to whirl with thoughts and questions and quandaries. But as he strips out of his clothes and lies down on the bed, he feels a quietness settle in his soul. It’s not just the heavy-limbed weariness of a long day and a fight; it’s something more. It’s as if the hole that has been growing inside him for the last two years, its sides slowly eroding a little more each day, is no longer as painful as it was yesterday.

He sleeps, and does not dream.

When he wakes, the midday sun is streaming through the thin curtains, and there are noises coming from the living room: small grunts, movements, the shifting of feet on wooden floors. He rises, pulls on old jeans and a clean shirt, and steps out of his room.

Buffy is in the center of the living area, wearing the cargo pants and tank top of the day before, but barefooted. She has pushed the furniture to the sides of the room, and she is doing drills: shadow boxing, fighting the air. She is not technically flawless, but there is a grace and an intensity to her movements that hurts to watch. 

“Enjoying the show?” she says, without turning in his direction, and he jumps, then clears his throat.

“Would - would you like some breakfast?” he asks, wondering why he feels guilty.

“I found the coffee,” Buffy replies, throwing a couple straight punches, her braid swinging across her back.

“You need more than coffee,” Giles says. “I have oatmeal, and fruit. A well-fueled body is better equipped to deal with the challenges of Slaying, and, well, life. In general.”

Buffy stops boxing and looks at him for the first time. “You’re kinda fussy, Giles.” 

He opens his mouth and closes it again, unsure how to respond. Her gaze is unreadable, and he doesn’t know how to articulate the fact that he doesn’t normally worry about what other people eat, that his instinct to take care of her is something new and strange and overwhelming. He decides against saying anything, and heads to the kitchen. He busies himself with making oatmeal, enough for two.

Giles feels more than hears her come into the kitchen behind him as he's mixing the oats and milk in a pan on the stove top. She stays silent for a few moments so he keeps his back to her, continuing to stir the food until she is ready to speak.

“I had him, you know,” she says, at length.

He isn't sure what he was expecting to hear, but it's not that.

“I'm sorry?” he says, confused, turning to face her.

“The Master. I had him. I didn't need you to come in all white knight-y and stab him in the chest. I could have taken him down by myself. So if you're waiting for a thank you...” She tilts her chin up, looks him in the eyes. Dares him to challenge her.

Giles can still see the image of her in the Master's hold, her eyes unfocused, still stunned from his first punch. He can see what would have happened next, too: the Master plunging his teeth into her neck, or snapping it between his hands like a twig. He could tell her this, could point out that she would be dead now if not for him, that her actions were reckless and bordering on suicidal, that if she can't admit that then she is likely to make the same mistakes again. 

But he doesn't. There is the slightest of tremors at the side of her mouth, the smallest of twitches in her jaw. For all her bluster, she looks oddly vulnerable. She knows, deep down, he thinks, that it would have been the end, but she isn't ready to believe it.

She's waiting for an answer, but he simply nods slightly, then turns and takes the saucepan off the stove.

“Oatmeal’s ready,” he says.

\-----

Buffy eats the oatmeal on the move, holding the bowl in one hand as she uses the other to pick up anything in Giles’ home that isn’t nailed down. He winces as she pulls ancient books from the shelves, flicks through them and replaces them in a different order, and he has to look away as she picks up his favorite paperweight, an ancient Orb of Thesulah, then throws it lightly in the air and catches it again. He doesn’t have the heart to stop her; there is a restless energy about her, as though she is afraid to stand still and just be.

“Don’t you have a job?” she says, suddenly, and Giles almost chokes on his oatmeal. Last night he intended to call in sick when the morning came, but his unexpectedly deep sleep chased the thought from his mind.

“Indeed,” he says, rising and moving towards the telephone. “I’ll let the school know I won’t be able to come in today.”

“Why?” Buffy asks, in a tone that suggests she doesn’t care what the answer is.

Giles pauses and looks at her. “I assumed we would spend the day together. We have much to discuss. And when the sun sets, we should patrol.”

She sets down her empty oatmeal bowl and starts tossing the paperweight from hand to hand. “I told you, I don’t play well with others, and I definitely don’t patrol with them.”

“Well… perhaps you’ll make an exception for me, just this once, considering I know this town a little better than you?”

Buffy cocks her head and watches him for a moment, and he has the distinct feeling he’s being judged. Then she shrugs.

“I guess a temporary tour guide wouldn’t hurt. And before the sun sets, maybe you can show me where to buy a toothbrush and some clothes.”

\-----

“This is a real peach of a town,” Buffy mutters as they make their way along the high street in the afternoon heat, heading for one of the few stores that are still in business. 

Giles can’t argue with that. The rot started years ago, and every time he ventures into town it’s a little worse. Another storefront boarded up, the owner dead; a dozen fresh “Missing” posters stapled to the lampposts; a new piece of graffiti crudely announcing the artist’s hatred or despair.

“Yes,” he says. “I’m afraid Sunnydale is not a premier shopping destination. Still, we should be able to get you the essentials.”

“That’s all I need,” Buffy says, dully. “Not here for the handbags.”

Giles looks down at her. At the utilitarian clothes, the harsh braid, the beat-up army boots. This isn’t the Buffy he expected. Two years ago when the Council gave him the brief on his soon-to-be-Slayer, they described her as a popular sixteen year old, outgoing, a lover of fashion and frivolity. A cheerleader, for goodness sake. But this girl - this woman, really, of almost eighteen years - she is all sharp edges and walls and bare necessities, and he cannot imagine her carefree, cannot picture her shopping for designer handbags with friends.

They reach a drugstore, and Buffy makes a beeline for the toiletries. She chooses quickly, barely looking at the labels, and dumps the items on the counter. Shampoo, shower gel, deodorant, toothpaste and a toothbrush. Giles reaches for his wallet but she’s already pulling a few crumpled notes from her pocket and laying them down. Soon they are back outside, heading down the near-empty sidewalk to a clothing outlet.

Giles talks to fill the quiet, pointing out minor landmarks to Buffy. The coffee shop that used to be bustling, but closed down last year because people rarely go anywhere other than work or school now. The pizza place, which still does a decent trade during weekends but doesn’t deliver any day after sunset. The magic store, where even people who aren’t sure they really believe in demons queue up to buy protective charms and crosses, because anything is worth a try when the town death toll increases each day.

Buffy stays in step beside him, takes it all in, but doesn’t comment. It’s only after she’s bought a few t-shirts and a pair of pants, and they begin the walk back to Giles’ place, that she glances up at him and says, “This Cordelia girl. She said things were better, once?”

Giles nods, slowly. “She said you were here, and everything was different.”

“So this is my fault,” Buffy says, shoving her hands into her pockets.

Giles stops in the middle of the sidewalk. “What? No. Buffy, you mustn’t say that.” She is walking on without him, but he reaches out and catches hold of her wrist. “Buffy, wait.”

She turns, and for the first time he can see a flash of real emotion in her face, but then she looks away and sets her eyes on something in the middle distance.

“It’s true, though, isn’t it? I didn’t come here like I was supposed to, and everybody died.”

“No, I-” Giles tries to find a way to deny that, but he’s floundering, his brain refusing to work properly. “I don’t believe any of us are responsible for the acts of others,” he says, eventually. “And this is the Master’s doing, and his minions’. It’s not your work.”

Buffy’s still looking off to the side, refusing to meet his eyes. “I could have stopped it though, right?”

Giles chooses not to answer that. “The Council told me that you were unable to come here. That Fate had intervened, and made it obvious your destiny lay elsewhere. So I don’t see how you’re to blame, Buffy.”

Buffy frowns. “Did they tell you why I didn’t come?” She looks him in the eye now, searching for something.

“Ah - no. The Council only give out information on a need-to-know basis. I suppose they thought I didn’t need to know.” Giles remembers the conversation vividly. He takes off his glasses and starts to clean them, the familiar motion giving him a fraction of comfort as he recalls the confusion and helplessness he felt during that telephone call. “They only said that they lost track of you while you were on your way here, and when they found you again after a few weeks, events had transpired that meant you could not come to Sunnydale. You were near Cleveland, and they had a Watcher already based there, so… my services were no longer needed.”

Buffy presses her lips together. “Yeah. Events transpired, alright.” She pauses for a moment, then shakes herself and gives Giles a tight smile. “I’m gonna run back the rest of the way. You can never have too much running practice.”

Before Giles can say anything else, she sets the bag with her purchases in at his feet and jogs off, disappearing quickly around the corner.

\-----

When Giles arrives back at the apartment, the shower is running. He hesitates for a moment, then knocks lightly on the bathroom door and calls through to Buffy, letting her know he’s leaving the bag of clothes and toiletries on the floor outside.

A half hour later, he’s in the kitchen fixing a light meal for the two of them when Buffy pads through from the guest room, wearing a fresh outfit, her hair damp around her shoulders. She pauses at the entrance to the kitchen, then comes in and hoists herself up to sit on one of the kitchen counters. She doesn’t speak, but she watches him as he cooks.

“You do like scrambled eggs?” he checks as he cracks another egg into the pan.

“Who doesn’t?” she says noncommittally. 

“Protein,” Giles explains. “To set us up for patrolling later.”

“I normally get a cheeseburger,” she says, kicking her heels against the kitchen cabinet. “Not big on cooking.” Then she shrugs and looks away, as if regretting having shared the fact.

“Well. There’s protein in cheese. And beef.” Giles smiles gently at her. She’s scrubbed off the black eyeliner she was wearing earlier, and without the braid she looks softer, less severe.

“Your mom doesn’t cook?” Giles asks. “Or...a roommate?” He isn’t sure who Buffy lives with; he supposes she might even live with Jeremiah, her Watcher.

It’s the wrong thing to say, evidently. Buffy’s face closes off instantly, and she gives a short shake of her head, then slips off the counter and out of the kitchen.

Giles turns back to the eggs, kicking himself.

By the time he sets two plates of eggs and toast down on the small table in the living area, he’s heavily berated himself for pushing too far into Buffy’s life. When she joins him at the table, though, she doesn’t look angry, just weary.

“So, listen,” she says as she forks eggs into her mouth. “You’ve shown me around the town now. I know where I’m going. You don’t need to come out with me tonight.”

Giles frowns. “I’d like to. And I haven’t shown you the graveyards, or the back alleys, or -”

“I think I can find them myself.”

“Still,” Giles says. “This is my town. I need to see the state of things after yesterday’s events. So we may as well go together.”

Buffy sighs. “Fine. But don’t get in my way. And don’t expect me to drop everything to save you if you get into trouble.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

\-----

Even though the sun has set, the air is unseasonably warm and heavy as they set out from the apartment. Giles feels oddly exposed; he is used to only going out after curfew in the van, accompanied by Oz and Larry and whoever else he has managed to recruit that week. As they head into the area near the Bronze, he pulls the back of his shirt away from his neck to let some air flow down his back, and pats his pockets for the third time, checking his supplies of Holy Water.

“Chill out,” Buffy says, out of nowhere. It’s the first thing she’s said since they left the apartment.

“I - Am I not ‘chilled’?” Giles asks.

“You’re fidgeting, and it’s making me nervous.” She stops in the middle of the street and turns slowly, listening, then gives a frustrated sigh. “People really take this curfew thing seriously, huh? It’s Tumbleweed City out here.”

“They’ve learned the hard way,” Giles says. 

“Guess that’s why the vamps had that whole blood-production-line thing going on,” Buffy mutters, starting to walk again. “Makes sense when wild prey’s so hard to come by.”

Giles makes a face as he remembers the body of the poor girl from the night before, skewered on the machine, drained of blood. “Yes, I suppose so.” He glances down the next alley they pass, but it’s empty too. “I did think there might be a few of the more foolhardy teenagers out tonight though, celebrating the Master’s demise. Word must have got around that he’s gone.”

“Aha,” Buffy says, lowering her voice as they round the corner. Halfway down the alley a group of four men around Buffy’s age are leaning against the wall under the glow of a streetlamp, drinking from beer cans and laughing. One of them holds up their can and says something that Giles can’t quite make out, and the others cheer and raise their drinks in a toast.

“Celebrating, like you said,” Buffy mutters. “Don’t think they’re gonna be so happy in a minute.”

Giles gives her a questioning look, but she has already set off towards the group. And then Giles sees what she sees: a whole hoard of vampires, eight or nine at least, approaching the gang from the other direction, emerging out of the darkness. They’re not even bothering to hide their real faces.

Buffy yells out to the men, and they turn, see the vampires and scatter, dropping their beer cans on the ground. One of them pushes roughly past Buffy as he runs by, sending her stumbling to the side. Giles runs to her, but she’s already righting herself as the group of vampires surround them.

Giles swallows. The vampires grin, their teeth glinting white, their fingers flexing. They circle around he and Buffy slowly.

“Well, well, what have we here?” one of them sneers, obviously not having paid enough attention the night before to be afraid of Buffy. “If it isn’t the Englishman who’s always trying to play savior round these parts. And you’ve got a new little recruit. She doesn’t look up to much, though. Let’s see what you’ve taught her, shall we?”

Buffy draws the stake from up her sleeve. “Why not? I like to put on a show.”

The vampire launches himself at her, but she ducks and then sends him sprawling backwards with a swift kick to the stomach. She leaps forward to stake him, but his crew are on her in an instant, four of them at once. Giles moves to help, but another two of the vampires grab him by the arms and drag him back, then slam him against the wall of the alley, knocking the stake out of his hand. He kicks out, pushing against them, but his strength is no match for theirs. Still, he cares less about what they will do to him and more about what the group of vampires attacking Buffy will do to her. He can no longer even see her past their bulk.

The vampires either side of him yank his head back and it hits the wall hard, causing sparks to ignite in front of his eyes. He funnels all his energy into stretching his hands towards the cross in his pocket, but it is too far away, and he sees the two vampires grin at each other, then lurch forward to sink their teeth into opposite sides of his neck.

The expected pain doesn’t come. Instead, he’s knocked back again as a body - another vampire - comes careening into the vamps holding him down. The force with which he falls onto them can only mean he was thrown by a Slayer.

The distraction gives Giles enough time to reach for the cross and the Holy Water in his pockets; he slams the cross up under the jawbone of the vampire on his right, and smashes the small bottle of water into the face of the one in his left. Both fall back, hissing, smoke rising from one of their faces. They turn and flee.

Giles darts forward, past the dazed vampire who Buffy had thrown, and gathers his stake up from where it fell. He turns back and plunges it into the chest of the stunned vamp, and watches the body explode into dust.

“Giles!” Buffy shouts from behind him, and he whirls around to see Buffy being all but torn apart by the four of the remaining vampires, each with one of her limbs in their grasp, while a fifth vamp licks his lips and drags a hand along her stomach as he nears her neck. 

Something snaps within Giles, and he growls and throws himself at the nearest vampire, slamming the full weight of his body into it. The vamp falls, and Giles falls on top of him, stake pointing downwards. The body beneath him collapses into dust and Giles hits the ground. He rolls over onto his side and looks around for Buffy, but she’s got control of the situation; one leg free was all she needed to kick her way out of the vamps’ hold, and now she only has two demons left to stake. It’s a short battle: a block, a kick, a lunge back and forth, a flip of the stake. Another two clouds of dust bursting into the air.

The alley, so filled with noise a moment ago, is silent. Giles blinks, props himself up on his elbows and looks up at Buffy. She’s standing tall in the center of the alley, stake firmly in hand, hair glowing under the streetlamp. The term ‘avenging angel’ flits through Giles’ mind.

Then she steps closer to him, and offers him her hand so that she can pull him up. When he takes it, he finds she is trembling.

\-----

They don’t speak on the walk home. Buffy keeps her eyes straight ahead, her pace quick, though she slows slightly when she realizes Giles is struggling to keep up with her. She stands back as they reach Giles’ door and he unlocks it, and when she enters the apartment behind him, he feels her reach up and touch the back of his head.

“You’re bleeding,” she says.

Giles drops his stake and cross on the table with a clatter. “Yes, I imagine so,” he says, reaching up himself to feel the cut on his head where the vampires slammed him into the brick wall. His hand comes away sticky. 

“Do you have supplies?” Buffy asks. 

“Medicine cupboard, in the bathroom.” Giles sinks into a chair while Buffy heads off, and returns a minute later with a handful of antiseptic wipes, plasters and bandages. He takes one of the wipes from her and starts to attempt to clean the wound, but without being able to see it, he’s fumbling. Buffy gives a short huff.

“I’ll do it,” she says, and steps around behind his chair, then pushes his head forward a little. “Hold still.”

It feels strange, to have her small fingers in his hair, pushing aside strands to get a better view at the cut. She’s surprisingly gentle, and it occurs to Giles that it’s a long time since anybody has touched him like this, and a longer time since anyone has taken care of him.

It almost feels too soon when the cut is cleaned and plastered.

“Anywhere else?” Buffy says, her short tone out of sync with her soft touch. She steps back in front of Giles and looks him over critically.

“No. Just bruises, no doubt. What about you?” 

Buffy shrugs. “A few scrapes. They’ll be gone by tomorrow, probably.” She pushes up her sleeve a little and runs a finger along a scratch on her forearm, examining it.

Giles reaches for the pile of antiseptic towelettes and rips one open, then takes Buffy’s arm and carefully wipes over the small wound.

“I can do it myself,” Buffy mutters, but even so, she leans back against the edge of the table and pulls up her shirt a little, letting Giles see the angry, red graze along her side. He winces on her behalf, then takes a new wipe and looks at her questioningly. She nods slightly, and he leans forward and tends to the graze. Her stomach contracts a little under his touch, and he wonders when the last time was that she had someone to patch her up. There’s an uneven scar snaking around the front of her stomach that looks as if she tried to stitch it up herself. The edge of his thumb catches the end of it as he moves his hand away, and their eyes meet.

“Braxian demon,” she says. “Very Edward Scissorhands-like.”

“I’ve seen pictures,” Giles says, his jaw clenching at the thought of Buffy facing one. “I’m guessing this one is no longer with us?”

“Nope. Got this lovely souvenir though,” Buffy says, nodding down at the scar, then pulling her shirt down.

“It’ll fade, in time,” Giles says. “A Slayer can heal from even the deepest scars.”

“Maybe,” Buffy says, looking unconvinced. “If I live that long.” 

Giles frowns and starts to reply, but Buffy pushes herself away from the table and heads to the kitchen, grabbing a couple bottles of water from the fridge. She tosses one to Giles and then pops the cap on hers and sits down opposite Giles to drink it, drumming her fingers on the table. After a moment, she looks over at him.

“Don’t often get hordes like that in Cleveland,” she says. “I usually only have to face one or two vamps at a time.” She takes a swig of her drink and her eyes slide away from him. “You did okay tonight.”

“We did okay,” Giles points out. “Took out six vampires between us.”

“Yeah, well. You shouldn’t patrol with me again. It’s too dangerous for a non-Slayer. You were nearly killed.” 

“I wasn’t, though. And neither were you.” Giles puts a hand lightly over her fingers, stilling the constant drumming. “We helped each other. That’s a good thing.”

He expects Buffy to protest that she would have been fine by herself, that she didn’t need his assistance, but she doesn’t. Maybe she thinks it would be too obvious a lie.

“Perhaps,” Giles says, slowly, “if you allowed someone to fight by your side more often, you’d be safer. And even more, uh, effective.”

“Or maybe I’d be dead by now. Maybe they’d distract me. Or I’d be so busy looking out for them that I wouldn’t have time to do my job.” She slips her hand out from underneath Giles’ and gets up from her seat. “They’d probably just let me down, anyway.” She makes a move towards her room, then stops and glances back, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides.

“Thanks, though,” she says. “For tonight.”

“Same time tomorrow, then?” Giles says, raising his eyebrows.

To his surprise, she laughs, though there's still a bitter edge to it. “You don’t give up, do you?” she says over her shoulder.

“Not likely,” Giles murmurs as she walks away.

\-----

Giles is awake early the next morning, feeling well rested despite the lingering ache at the back of his head. He sips his morning tea at the table, wondering whether he should leave Buffy a note if she doesn’t surface before he has to leave for work. He is just considering what he should write, when she pads bare-footed out of her bedroom, dressed in what looks very much like one of Giles’ t-shirts.

“Is that my...?” Giles says as Buffy wanders through to the kitchen and starts looking for coffee.

“Huh?” Buffy glances back at him. “Oh. Yeah. Found it in the clean laundry pile. Forgot to buy pajamas at the store yesterday.”

Giles blinks. “Right. Well. Very good.” He drinks more tea.

Buffy brings her coffee mug over to the table and sits down. Her face is still soft with sleep, her hair is mussed, and she looks very different to the hyper-alert Slayer he met two days ago. She yawns and puts her elbows on the table, cupping her chin in her hand.

“Going to work?” she says. “That’s a lot of tweed.”

Giles looks down at his jacket. “It’s an appropriate amount,” he says. “And yes, I’m afraid I really should, today. But perhaps when I return, we could do some training? We should be able to fit in a couple hours’ solid work before tonight’s patrol.”

“I train alone,” Buffy says.

Giles sets his tea cup down. “Well, I know you tend to fight alone, but, surely Jeremiah trains you? He must help you master the different weapons, help you hone your skills and -”

“Nope,” Buffy says, offhandedly. “I do all my skill-honing myself. It’s amazing what you can learn from books and fight movies. Big fan of _Rocky_ one through four. Not so keen on number five.”

Giles stares. “But…Surely…”

“Don’t look so horrified,” Buffy says. “Merrick trained me some, before he passed. And Jerry did try to train me. We just… didn’t get on. So I do my own thing, and check in with him now and again.” She shrugs and sips her coffee.

Giles is struggling to comprehend what Buffy is saying. He knew the relationship between her and Jeremiah wasn’t good - it was clear enough from her Watcher’s complete lack of idea where she was, or when he might see her again when Giles last spoke to him - but for him to just leave her to manage her talents alone went against everything the Watcher and Slayer relationship stood for.

“I shall need to have a word with him,” Giles says, tightly, but Buffy waves a hand dismissively.

“It’s not really his fault. He’d have needed to tie me down to keep me with him. We were never gonna work out.” She grimaces. “He thought I should call him Sir.”

Giles can’t help but snort at that. “Yes, I can see how that wouldn’t go down well.”

“And he tried to make me take multiple choice tests on the differences between demons. Plus, there was a whole thing with a guidebook.”

“The Slayer Handbook?” Giles asks.

“Yeah. That.” Buffy raises an eyebrow. “I was not a fan.”

“I can imagine.” Giles can’t help but wonder how things would have been if the Council hadn’t already had Jeremiah posted in Cleveland, if they had asked him to go instead, and he had been Buffy’s Watcher, as planned. Would he have tried to make her follow the Handbook, or could they have forged a different type of relationship? He hopes it would be the latter. Not that it matters now, of course. She has her Watcher, ill-suited as the pair are, and she will need to return to him sooner or later.

“If I promise not to bring up the Handbook, perhaps we could try at least one training session?” Giles says. “You’re a good fighter, Buffy, but books and movies are not a substitute for a real teacher.”

Buffy narrows her eyes and sits up straighter. “I’m a _great_ fighter.”

Giles nods. “Of course. It’s just, I have access to centuries’ worth of notes on harnessing the Slayer powers. And I’ve done years of preparation. Training with a Watcher would make you stronger, safer. I could make sure -”

“Make sure what?” Buffy cuts in, voice hard. “You’d make sure that I never get hurt? That I always win? You’ve got some magical way to protect me? To make sure I don’t die?” She’s mocking him, but Giles can hear a plea underneath, a desire she can’t quite hide for it to be true.

And Giles wants, badly, to say yes, to all of that, and for it not to be a lie.

Instead he says, “I would try.” 

Buffy sinks her chin down into her hands again, deflating at Giles’ soft tone, and closes her eyes.

“Give it a chance?” Giles asks, after a moment. He nudges her arm gently. “I promise it won’t involve any multiple choice tests.”

Buffy almost, _almost_ smiles at that. She opens one eye, looks at him, then closes it again. “One session,” she says.

\-----

One session becomes two, and then three, by unspoken agreement. Giles lets her lead the sessions, lets her decide what she wants to practice and what weapons to use, and in return she listens to him more closely than he expected. Buffy is already a natural fighter, but Giles has been itching to correct her positioning since the first time he saw her fight, his dormant Watcher instincts kicking in, and with an instruction here, a hand on her hip there, the improvements are obvious almost instantly. Every time the two of them make an adjustment that helps Buffy to balance easier or hit harder, there’s a flash of surprise and satisfaction across her face that makes Giles’ chest contract. It is bittersweet, knowing each session could be the last, knowing that soon she will decide it’s time to leave, but he determines to impart what he can to her in whatever time he has.

They fall into a routine, without really noticing. Giles comes home after work, they train for two hours, then they make dinner. Or rather, Giles makes dinner, while Buffy watches quietly from her seat on the kitchen counter, drinking one of the diet Cokes that Giles has stocked the fridge with. She doesn’t offer to help, but on the fourth night Giles puts a wooden board, knife and carrots down near to her, turns away to adjust the stove, and turns back to find she has gotten down from her perch and is chopping the vegetables into haphazard, unwieldy chunks. When they eat the stew later, he decides he prefers his vegetables unwieldy.

After dinner they patrol. The vampire population is in disarray: at least three new players are vying for top position in the wake of the Master’s demise, and all seem to think the way to seize power is to kill more viciously and in higher numbers than their opponents. They are not only picking off those who flout the curfew out of necessity, defiance or recklessness, but are also developing ruses to lure humans from their homes and workplaces after sundown. 

Word has gotten out about the Slayer’s presence, so the vamps are travelling in packs, but Buffy and Giles still manage to take out a few each night. They are learning to fight side by side, to anticipate each other’s moves. It comes more naturally than Giles had dared to imagine.

It is after they return from patrol on the sixth night of Buffy’s stay, that Jeremiah calls. The phone is ringing in Giles’ apartment as they walk through the door, and he rushes to pick it up.

“Hello?”

“Rupert Giles? It’s Jeremiah Wright here. The Watcher of Buffy Summers.”

“Yes, I know who you are,” Giles says, gritting his teeth at the man’s supercilious tone. “It’s only a matter of days since I spoke to you.” It feels like longer. 

“Do you happen to know where my Slayer is?” Jeremiah asks. It’s clear he already knows the answer.

Giles glances over at Buffy, who is watching him steadily, and he tries not to let his emotions show on his face. He barely even knows what his emotions are, he only knows that they are fluttering wildly in his chest. He tells himself to calm down. He knew this situation was only ever temporary, that if Buffy didn’t leave of her own choice, she would be called back.

“She’s still assisting me with a situation in Sunnydale,” Giles says. 

There’s a pause, and then Jeremiah says, “Let me speak to her.”

Giles covers the mouthpiece with his hand. “Jeremiah wishes to speak to you,” he tells Buffy, though he suspects she has heard everything. Slayer hearing is not to be sniffed at.

Buffy holds out her hand for the phone.

“Jerry,” she says, in a way that immediately tells Giles that her Watcher hates the nickname. Giles does his best not to smile.

“I’ve been busy,” Buffy says in reply to whatever Jeremiah has asked. “Slaying. Et cetera.” She listens to him for a moment, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, well, the Sunnydale one’s more active. It’s like a Super Hellmouth, or something. There’s a higher… _convergence of mystical energy_.” 

Giles definitely smiles this time. He described the Hellmouth in the exact same words to Buffy the day before.

“I don’t know,” Buffy says now. “When I’m ready.” 

Giles hears Jeremiah raise his voice considerably on the other end of the line, though he can’t make out the words. He thinks that’s probably a good thing, for Jerry’s safety. Whatever he’s saying, it’s clearly not a compliment to Buffy.

“I am _not_. I’m doing my job,” Buffy snaps. “I’m supposed to go where I’m needed.” She pauses to let him speak again, then says, “Go ahead, tell the Council whatever you want.” She reaches past Giles and slams the phone back into its holder.

“Idiot,” she mutters, her face dark. She drags a hand through her hair frustratedly, then turns and starts picking up the stakes she dumped on the table when she got back from patrol. She shoves them back into her pockets and slips one up her sleeve.

“I’m going back out,” she says to Giles. “I need to kill things.”

Giles nods. His instinct is to pick up his own stake and follow her, but the last thing she needs is a second overbearing Watcher, and she probably wants some time by herself to work out her irritations. The thought that she might decide to follow Jeremiah’s order to go back to Cleveland and might leave without saying goodbye crosses his mind, but he pushes it away. She doesn’t seem inclined to do anything Jerry says.

“Stay safe,” he says, instead of any of the things he wants to say.

Buffy, already at the door, glances back at him, and frowns.

“Aren’t you coming?” she says.

\-----

Buffy walks fast, head down, but Giles manages to keep up. The sky is turning from black to deep blue, and dawn will be here before long; most of the vampires will have headed underground by now, but they might get lucky and find a demon or two for Buffy to pound on.

“I apologize,” Giles says, breathing a little heavier than normal due to the increased pace, “if I’ve caused friction between you and Jeremiah. It wasn’t my intention.”

Buffy gives a quick shake of her head. “Friction was already there. We are nothing but friction.”

“Still,” Giles says, “I should have let Jeremiah know you were staying with me.” It wasn’t that it hadn’t occurred to him to do so. When it became clear Buffy wasn’t leaving after a day or two, he thought about calling her Watcher. He knew it was the proper thing to do, but he told himself it was unnecessary; Buffy probably wouldn’t be there much longer. The truth, he knew, was that he didn’t want to do anything that might cause Buffy to think about returning to Cleveland, and communicating with her Watcher fell firmly into that category.

“It wasn’t your responsibility,” Buffy says. “And Jerry’s used to not knowing where I am. He’s only annoyed because I’m with another Watcher. Seemed to think it was undermining his authority or something.” 

They come to the cemetery, and Buffy pushes open the gate, steps in and scans the grounds, searching for a glimpse of movement. There is nothing, but she presses on anyway, taking the path that leads right through the center of the graveyard. She has slowed, apparently having worked off some of her anger, but she’s still silent, deep in thought.

Eventually she stops, leans against a gravestone and folds her arms around her waist. Giles stops too, unsure what to do, and fiddles with his glasses. Buffy glances up at him, then moves to the side a little, leaving space on the gravestone for Giles to lean on it next to her. He briefly considers protesting that it’s not respectful to the dead, then dismisses the thought and settles beside her. It’s a welcome relief to let the stone take some of his weight; he’s been up for well over twenty hours. Buffy’s bare arm presses against his, and he can feel the heat of her through his shirt sleeve. He waits for her to speak.

“I thought, a couple times, about what my Watcher would have been like if I’d come to Sunnydale like I was supposed to,” Buffy says at length. “But then I figured you were probably just like Jerry.” 

Giles smiles a little. “Watchers are trained to follow the same rules, to act in line with official guidance, but… we’re not all exactly the same.”

“You’re nothing like him,” Buffy says quietly. She pauses, but Giles senses she has more to say.

“I should have just come here,” she continues, when a few minutes have passed. “Turns out there was no reason to go elsewhere anyway.” She sighs and wraps her arms more tightly around herself.

Giles waits again, wary of pushing her, but she doesn’t elaborate. And he wants so badly to know. He wants to know why he has spent the last years alone, watching the town fall apart around him, watching the school corridors become emptier each day, feeling the skills he dedicated his life to learning going to waste.

“May I ask, why you didn’t come?” he says, carefully. Then he hurriedly follows it with, “It’s okay, if you don’t want to talk about it.”

Buffy looks up at the lightening sky, not meeting Giles’ gaze. “We were on the way,” she says. It sounds like there’s a lump in her throat. “At the end of August. Me and Mom, we were driving here. She’d already bought a house, got a new job. It was gonna be a new start, after L.A..” She stops, and Giles hears her swallow.

“It was dark, but Mom was good at driving at night. I still… I don’t know what happened. We were on the highway, and it was like… Mom just lost control of the car. There was no reason. There weren’t even any other cars around.”

Giles has a horrible sense that he know where this is going. He yearns to reach out and take Buffy’s hand, or put his arm around her, but he feels that if he moves - if he even breathes - she might stop talking.

“The car came off the road, into the trees. It was all twisted up. We were pinned down. Mom was unconscious, and I was just...in and out. Sort of aware.” Buffy pauses, and rubs her hands up and down her arms as if she has suddenly gone cold.

“Maybe she wouldn’t have made it anyway,” Buffy says. Her voice is close to cracking, but it doesn’t. “But it doesn’t matter, because there were vamps in the wood. I came to at one point and they were…” She stops, presses her lips together.

“Buffy… I’m so sorry,” Giles says. His heart breaks for her. He feels it like a physical pain.

Buffy shivers. “I couldn’t get to her. They were… I couldn’t help. I was trapped.” A tear slips down her face and she brushes it away angrily. She takes a deep breath. “I got out, eventually. Went after the vamps. Tracked them for days, all the way to Toledo, but then I lost them. I couldn’t even avenge my Mom.”

“You did everything you could.”

Buffy shakes her head. “Maybe.” She pushes herself away from the gravestone and paces back and forth in front of it, kicking at the ground. “I didn’t want to go to Sunnydale. It didn’t feel right without Mom. And my father… he thought I was crazy when I told him vampires killed Mom. Wanted me to go into an institution. So when the Council found me, I told them I was gonna stay where I was. They weren’t happy, obviously, but I wasn’t gonna change my mind. Eventually they said there was a Hellmouth and a Watcher right down the road in Cleveland, and… that was that.” She stops moving, shrugs and looks at Giles for the first time since they sat down.

Giles wants to say the right thing, but he can’t figure out what that is. What could he possibly say to take away any of the pain she’s been through?

He gets up, takes a step towards her, and carefully puts his arms around her, giving her time to push him away if she wants to. She doesn’t. Her body is stiff and unyielding as he expected, but only for a moment, and then she is leaning into him, her hands curled into fists against his chest, her head tipping forward and resting under his chin. She shudders and he tightens his grip, then drops a kiss down onto the top of her head.

They stay like that until Buffy shakes herself and steps away, and Giles lets his arms drop.

“We should get back,” Buffy says. She looks at the sky. “Sun’s up.”

\-----

Buffy goes to bed as soon as they return to Giles’ apartment, and he retires too, thankful that it is the weekend and he can sleep in tomorrow. For the first time in a week, though, he does not fall asleep easily. When he closes his eyes, he can’t stop himself from imagining the crash, can’t stop seeing a car hurtling out of control and over the side of a road for no reason. He can’t stop wishing he could reach back through time and change things for Buffy.

It hits him, suddenly, that he felt it happen, that day at the end of August, years before. 

When the Council assigned him to be Buffy’s Watcher, he started to feel something: a connection, a thread binding him to someone he didn’t even know. He felt her presence at the edge of his consciousness for the weeks before she was due to arrive. And on that August evening, he felt her coming closer. Until the thread snapped, and he was hit by the sudden absence of something he’d only just gotten used to feeling. He reached out, searching for her, and found only empty space.

At the time he dismissed it as a flight of fancy. Superstitious nonsense, even. To believe he had felt a connection was only wishful thinking, excitement over his new assignment. But now he wonders if that was the point when Cordelia’s wish took effect, when a demon unwound the strands of the universe and knit them back together in a way that was different and wholly unacceptable. 

He rubs a hand over his face. Might everything have been different, if Buffy had carried on to Sunnydale regardless? Perhaps he could have helped her through the death of her mother; perhaps the Master would not have risen; perhaps there would have been moments of light in the darkness, flashes of life and laughter between the death and the tears. Or perhaps not. Perhaps after the wish, they were only ever destined for pain.

It's irrelevant, he supposes. The years between then and now are gone, and all he can do is take this chance to do whatever he can for Buffy, for as long as she will let him.

\-----

It’s after one p.m. when he wakes to the sight of Buffy standing in his bedroom doorway, leaning on the doorjamb, her foot holding the door open. She has a cup in her hands. He blinks the sleep out of his eyes and raises his eyebrows.

“Brought you tea,” she says, in a voice that makes Giles think she is irritated with herself for doing so.

He pushes himself up into a sitting position and realizes too late that it leaves him shirtless, the sheets around his waist. Buffy’s gaze flicks down and up again, but her face stays expressionless as usual. She steps forward and hands him the tea.

It looks like the tea bag has barely touched the water. He sips it. 

“That’s… something else,” he says.

Buffy blows out an angry breath, and puts her hands on her hips. “I told you I wasn’t good at anything except Slaying,” she says.

“No, no, it’s...delicious.” He’ll have to teach her about steeping the tea bag. Another day, though. And even though the tea is barely drinkable, he’s touched that she made it.

“Thought you were never getting up,” Buffy says.

“Hence the tea?”

“Yeah.” She sits down on the end of his bed and pulls her legs up under her. “I was thinking knives today?”

“Hmm?” He’s too busy adjusting to the unfamiliar weight of someone else on his mattress to follow her question.

“Knives. In training. Keep up, Giles.”

“Oh, er, yes. Well, we certainly improved your crossbow technique yesterday, so knives would be a, um, reasonable follow-on.” He cocks his head to the side, looking at Buffy. “Is that a new outfit?” It doesn’t look like the ones he saw her purchase when they went shopping last week.

“Uh-huh.” She shrugs and repositions herself on the bed. “Ran out of clothes so I went out to get some this morning. Figured if I was gonna be sticking around a bit...” She trails off, looks out of the window.

“Did you even sleep?” Giles says, swallowing down the frisson of pleasure he feels at her last sentence.

“A few hours.” She smirks. “Not as long as you.”

Giles lets that go. “Didn’t you need money?” he asks. He knows she didn’t have a job in Cleveland, at least not one that came with a paycheck.

“I have money,” she says.

“Jeremiah?” Giles asks. It’s by no means unheard of for a Watcher to pay for a Slayer’s expenses, though he can’t imagine Buffy being willing to take money from a man she clearly doesn’t like.

Buffy shakes her head. “The Council pays my rent and utilities, and I can always get enough money for anything else I need.” 

“Oh,” Giles says. He can’t stop his brain from going to the ways that a pretty girl without a job would make money on the streets. He fights to keep his face neutral, but something must show because Buffy makes a snorting noise that’s almost a laugh. 

“Street fights and petty theft, jeez Giles, chill out.” There’s teasing in her eyes.

“Street fights?” he asks mildly.

“A lot of people will bet against a little blond girl,” she says. 

And Giles thinks: _I wouldn’t._

\-----

“When is this TV set even from?” Buffy says later that afternoon. Giles is sitting on the couch, reading a book while waiting to take the dinner out of the oven. Buffy is curled into the corner at the couch’s other end, flicking through channels on his admittedly old television. “Is it pre-war?”

Giles reaches over and takes the remote control out of her hand. “You’ve gone through every channel,” he says. “And no, it is not pre-war. I think you’ll find they didn’t have color until the 1960s.”

Buffy is quiet for a moment, then uncurls one of her legs and reaches out to prod him with her bare toes.

“We should talk to the Council,” she says.

Giles sets down his book immediately. “We should?”

“Jerry said he was gonna call them, anyway. So if we don’t talk to them, they’ll talk to us.” She twirls the end of her braid in her fingers. “You could tell them I’m staying in town for a while. Tell them you need me.” 

Giles nods, wondering if she knows how true that is. “I can certainly speak with them,” he says. “Or you can, if you prefer.”

Buffy examines her braid, her eyes fixed to it as though she is searching for split ends. “What’s the deal with changing Watchers?” she asks, casually.

Giles’ breath catches. “Changing Watchers?”

“Yeah. Like, if it turned out Sunnydale needed me on a more...permanent basis.” She still doesn’t look at him. “Could you be my Watcher? Would the Council allow it?”

Giles opens his mouth, closes it again. “I - I don’t know. I’m not sure of the protocol. Slayers have changed Watchers before, but it’s usually because the Watcher dies, or retires.” He pushes his glasses up his nose and tries to catch Buffy’s eye. “I could ask though, if that’s what you think you might want.”

Buffy shrugs. “Only if, you know, you’d be into it.” She looks up at him at last, eyes unsure, and Giles smiles gently.

“Yes. I’d be, um... into it.”

\-----

On Monday, Giles sits in his office at the library, making notes and then crossing them out on a memo pad as he tries to figure how best to present his case to the Council. He is scratching through another poorly-worded phrase with his pen when he hears movement in the library’s main room.

“Oz?” he calls, getting up and heading out of the office. There are very few people who frequent the Sunnydale High Library these days. Not that he imagines it was ever a social hotspot.

It’s not Oz though, or Larry. It’s Buffy, standing in the middle of the room, looking up and around at the stacks. 

“Buffy?”

She glances over. “Hey.”

“Is everything alright?” Giles asks, confused. Buffy hasn’t been here before.

“Yeah, I just… got bored. There’s only so much sleeping, exercising and reality TV I can stomach. Tried to read one of your books, but… that is some dull reading material you’ve got.”

Giles is not convinced. Buffy has been near-enough alone for years, and is perfectly capable of keeping herself entertained. She isn’t here from boredom, but from curiosity. 

Or perhaps, because she misses him. It’s a foolish thought, but it comes anyway, and he has to work hard to put it out of his mind.

“I’m afraid all the library has to offer is more reading material,” Giles says. “I can give you a tour of the school, if you like?”

“Sure,” Buffy says. “Why not?”

\-----

It is unexpectedly painful, walking with Buffy through the school corridors, showing her the gym, the cafeteria, the quad. She keeps her face mostly blank, but Giles can tell she is feeling it too: the loss of what she might have had, if her mother had not died that night.

“I’d have been graduating this year,” she says, as they pause to sit on a bench outside. She squints, the afternoon sun in her eyes. “I’d have been going to prom.”

“You could still go to school,” Giles says. “You could re-enrol. You missed two years, but you could make it up.”

Buffy huffs out a dry laugh. “I don’t think school has much to teach me. When’s a Slayer going to need algebra? Besides, I’ve gotten too used to not being there. I don’t think I’d like teachers telling me what to do again.”

“You might want a high school diploma, in the future,” Giles points out. “If you’re applying for a job, or…” He lets the sentence trail away. Buffy is giving him a look that suggests they both know Slayers don’t live long enough for things like the lack of a high school diploma to be an issue.

“It’s not for me,” she says. “Maybe in a different life.” 

The bell rings, and moments later students start to trickle out of the doors, crossing in front of them as they head from one side of the building to the other. Buffy leans back, surveying them, watching a group of girls who are laughing, three boys who are trying to push each other over, and a couple who are walking hand in hand.

“It’s okay,” she says. “I don’t need any of this normal stuff. Lessons, parties. Boyfriends, falling in love. What’s the point?” 

“The point?” Giles says. “I think...those things are ends in themselves. And you could have some of them, I’m sure, if you so desired.” He rubs his nose. “I rather think, you could have your pick - that is to say, there would be lots of young men who - if you ever wanted, to be in love - I mean…” He stops, flustered, not sure what he is trying to say.

Buffy looks over at him, and gives him a half-smile that he can’t decipher. “I know what you mean,” she says.

He’s glad that she does, because he certainly doesn’t.

One of the group of roughhousing boys falls into the bench where they are seated, and almost topples into Buffy. She rolls her eyes and pushes him away.

“Hey, babe,” he says, leering a little as he regains his balance and lets his eyes roam over her. “You new here?”

Giles recognizes him as a senior. He thinks his name is Robert. He has a sudden urge to punch him in the face.

Buffy glares at the boy, then turns around and deliberately focuses her attention on Giles. The boy takes the hint and leaves, muttering something unpleasant under his breath.

“I’m really missing out,” Buffy says drily. She pushes herself up from the bench. “See you tonight, Jeeves.”

\-----

“It’s not that simple, Mr. Giles,” the voice at the end of the phone says. Giles is pacing around his living room, trying to use the notes he jotted down to convince the Director of the Watcher’s Council that Buffy’s place is here, with him. He had plenty of time to rehearse his plea; it has taken three days of back-and-forth phone calls with the Council to get an audience with the man he needs to speak to. It seems that an unemployed Watcher is not top of the Director’s priority list.

“I understand there’s much to consider,” Giles says, “but - ”

“I’m not saying it can’t be done,” the Director interrupts. “I’m saying that there are policies. Jeremiah Wright is Buffy’s Watcher and to rescind that appointment will require a lot of -”

“Red tape?” Giles says drily.

“Time and consideration, and appropriate procedures. And patience, on the part of you and Miss Summers. But I will take on board your request, and we will discuss it at the next board meeting.” 

Giles runs a hand through his hair. It’s probably the best answer he could have hoped for, though he doubts Buffy will be impressed when she returns from her run. “I appreciate that, Mr. Travers.”

“For now, we’ll continue to cover the rent on Miss Summer’s apartment in Cleveland,” the Director says. “It may be that she decides to return, or that she is needed back there sooner than she imagines.”

“Fine,” Giles replies.

“One more thing,” Travers says. “Where is she staying at the moment? Is she in a boarding house?”

Giles hesitates. “She’s staying at my apartment. I have a small guest room.”

There is a pause, and Giles waits for a reply, though he isn’t sure what to expect. Judgement? An accusation? Approval, even? There was a time when Watchers and Slayers were all but required to share living space, and even now in some cultures potential Slayers are taken from their families at a young age and delivered to their Watchers. But in recent years, in the West, it has been unusual for the two to live together.

Travers does not comment, though. He merely clears his throat and says, “Well, should she wish to have a space of her own, we can pay for temporary accomodation for her. Sunnydale has a motel, I presume?”

“Er, yes. The Motor Inn. It’s not far from here.”

“Very well. I’ll leave it up to you, then, Mr. Giles. Whatever you think is best. I trust you’ll keep me informed.”

“Of course. Thank you.” Giles bids Travers goodbye, and hangs up the phone. But he finds himself staring at the receiver, unsure what to do.

He doesn’t want Buffy to stay at a motel. He has waited so long, that now that she is here, he doesn’t want her anywhere but with him. After the things she has been through, he wants to keep her safe, to watch over her, to give her rest and comfort. And underneath those noble intentions, there is a fierce possessiveness that burns within him.

He wonders if that possessiveness is entirely appropriate. If he really listens to his heart, and his body, he has to admit that there are moments when his feelings towards Buffy are perhaps not entirely able to be explained away by his instincts as a Watcher.

Giles is still staring at the phone when Buffy pushes the door open, kicks it shut behind her and pulls off her new running shoes. She takes one look at him and says, “Been talking to England?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes. Yes, I spoke with the Director.” Giles takes his glasses off and rubs at his eyes, then makes his way over to the couch to sit down.

“Ugh. Travers.” Buffy follows Giles to the couch and sits cross-legged, facing him. She chews on her lip, worrying at her scar with her teeth, and Giles reaches out without thinking to stop her. He pauses with his thumb an inch from her lip and drops his hand, annoyed with himself. She looks at his hand, then releases her lip from between her teeth. 

“What did he say?” she asks.

“That changing Watchers is not an easy thing to do, but that it may be possible,” Giles says. “It will take time. There will need to be a board meeting. Discussions with Jeremiah. Mediation, probably.”

Buffy snorts. “That’ll go well.”

“Quite. I’ll do my best to convince them not to pursue that avenue, but...” 

“It can be done, though? You could be my Watcher?” She’s biting her lip again, but for the first time, Giles can see something that looks like hope in her eyes.

“I think so,” he says, cautiously. “I believe they’re aware that resistance is probably futile in the long run.”

She smiles then, and it’s soft and genuine and such a beautiful thing that Giles has to look away.

“Travers also said that the Council will continue to pay your rent in Cleveland, and that they could cover a stay in a motel here in Sunnydale for you, if you wished.”

Buffy frowns. “Didn’t you tell them I was staying here?”

“Yes.” Giles folds his hands in his lap, and looks down at them. “But, it’s an option. If you wanted your own space, some privacy, perhaps.” He swallows. “It might be for the best. You could start a proper life for yourself here -”

“Fine,” Buffy says. 

Giles looks up. The smile, the hope, are gone from her face. It’s as blank as the night he met her.

“I’m not saying that you have to -” he starts, but she’s already gotten up from the couch and is heading to her room. He hears her moving around, and it seems like no time at all before she’s emerged, bag in hand. Giles feels ill.

“I - it’s just that, I thought, you might appreciate the chance to…” He stops. He doesn’t know how to convince her that leaving his place is a good idea, when he barely believes it himself. “The Motor Inn is only a mile away. It won’t interfere with our training, or patrol…”

“Sure.” Buffy is shoving her feet into her shoes.

“You don’t need to leave right now,” Giles says.

“May as well,” she says.

“I’ll drive you, then,” Giles says, reaching for his car keys, but Buffy stops him with a single look.

“I can walk.”

\-----

Buffy moves into the Motor Inn. Nothing really changes, but everything changes.

They still patrol each night, but Buffy, who had begun to talk now and then between kills, is silent, speaking only when practicality or necessity dictates. They are still in tune when they fight, but when they dust a vampire, she no longer glances at Giles and exchanges a brief look of satisfaction with him. Now she just picks up her stake, and moves on.

They still train each day. But when he puts his hand on her arm, or her leg, or her hip, to adjust her posture, she no longer leans into it. He thought, before, that he was imagining the way she would melt slightly into his touch, but now that she has stopped doing so, the absence of it is glaring. 

She does not stay for dinner, in between training and patrol. He invites her every time, but she returns to the motel, citing the two-mile run there and back as good training. She says she misses eating cheeseburgers anyway.

It’s as if a switch has flipped in Buffy, and whatever Giles says or does, he cannot find a way to flip it back. 

After a week, Giles is starting to think he might lose his mind. He has lived alone for many years, but he has never felt lonely like this before. On Friday evening, he sits at his table, eating the single portion of stew that he cooked alone, with vegetables that have been cut up into correctly-sized chunks, and he thinks: _You stupid, stupid man._

\-----

On Saturday morning, he gets up early, picks up coffee and donuts, and drives to the motel.

He knocks on Buffy’s door, but there is no answer. His heart thuds. He calls her name, and knocks harder, and eventually he hears movement within the room. Seconds later, the door swings open.

“Giles.” Buffy, clearly just having gotten out of bed, glares at him. “It’s barely ten a.m.. We don’t train until four.”

Giles can’t speak for a moment. She is still wearing his t-shirt to sleep in.

He blinks and hands a coffee and the box of donuts to her. She takes them gingerly, suspicion in her eyes, and sets them down on the table by the door.

“I’m sorry to wake you. May - may I come in?” he asks. He has yet to go into her room, though he’s seen it from the door a few times. It is small, grey and does not look as clean as he would like.

Buffy doesn’t reply. “What’s going on?” she says.

Giles has rehearsed this multiple times on the way over, but the words still come out jumbled. “I wanted to say, that I - I was wrong. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t - I should never have suggested you move out. It was stupid, and I only wanted to give you the opportunity to live on your own terms, but, I see now that I was - well. I was an idiot. I would like it - very much - if you would come back.”

Buffy just looks at him.

“Buffy,” he says, and it’s almost a plea. “I miss… having you around. I mean, I’m not saying you have to come back, if you’re happy here, but…”

He reaches out and cups a hand around her upper arm, squeezes gently. She is warm and soft and strong under his touch, and he aches to take away the pain he’s caused her.

Her face softens, just slightly, and she lifts her hand and lays it over his. He allows himself to hope. Then she frowns, shakes her head as if to herself, and detaches Giles’ hand from her arm.

“I think I’ve got everything I need right here,” she says, and closes the door.

\-----

Giles spends the rest of the morning trying to read. He has to repeat each paragraph three or four times before he takes anything in. 

He curses himself for being foolish enough to throw away Buffy’s trust when he had taken such care to gain it. He should have known she would interpret his actions as a rejection, as evidence that she was better off being alone and self-sufficient. He’s a little surprised she didn’t leave days ago and go back to Cleveland.

His eyes flick constantly to the clock, waiting for four p.m., when Buffy will turn up for training. Or at least, when he hopes she will turn up for training.

At exactly four o’clock, Buffy opens the door. She is wearing her training clothes, but she has her bag with her, and it appears to be full. She looks at Giles with narrowed eyes, then strides over to the box room and tosses the bag onto the bed.

“The Motor Inn has cockroaches,” she announces when she returns.

“Ah,” says Giles. “Well. Thank goodness for that.”

\-----

It takes a little time for Buffy to readjust, to let Giles back in, but every day she seems a little less uneasy, a little more willing to talk, a little more eager to seek out his company. For Giles, having her back is an almost physical relief. The sleepless nights he spent while she was away from him and they were in conflict melt away; having her in the room next to his is a balm to the ragged parts of his soul, and he rests easily again.

Buffy has been back at the apartment for two weeks when they hear from the Council. Travers calls at six a.m., having either miscalculated the eight hour time difference, or, as Giles supposes is more likely, not caring about it. Giles pushes himself up in bed and does his best to sound coherent, having had only three hours’ sleep since he returned from accompanying Buffy on patrol.

He has barely put the phone down when Buffy knocks lightly on his door, then opens it without waiting for an answer. 

“The Council?” she asks.

Giles nods. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says. He tried to keep his voice down, but he isn’t surprised that Buffy overheard.

“Thin walls,” Buffy says. “So? What did they say?”

Giles indicates the end of the bed and she sits down, curling up and pulling the ends of his t-shirt over her knees. Giles vaguely wonders whether he will get to wear any of his shirts again or if she is planning on claiming them all, then decides he could not care less.

“They have spoken with Jeremiah. He was… less than impressed, shall we say, with your request. But Travers offered him a very generous retirement package, and a prime position in England within the Council, and it sounds as though that appealed to his, er -”

“Obsessive desire for adulation and control?”

“Something like that,” Giles says, trying not to smile. “And given that the Council can clearly see the higher degree of supernatural energy here compared to the Hellmouth in Cleveland, they’re willing to allow a change in Watcher if it facilitates you staying here. In fact, I rather think they’ve convinced themselves it was their idea for you to reduce the demon population in Cleveland and then move onto Sunnydale, and that you’re merely following their directions.”

Buffy’s eyebrows shoot up.

“We’ll let them have it, shall we?” Giles suggests mildly, and Buffy’s face relaxes into a smile.

“So, we’re official? You’re my Watcher?”

“And you’re my Slayer.”

\-----

The Council calls again, a few days later, and asks if Buffy wants to give up the apartment in Cleveland. She asks for time to think about it. Giles watches her struggle silently over the decision, and he forces himself to stay out of it. If she can’t let it go, he will be okay with that. He will understand if she needs to hold on to an escape route, if she cannot commit completely.

She calls the Council back the next day and tells them she’s giving notice to her landlord.

In one of his last acts before moving to England, Jeremiah collects her few possessions and ships them to Sunnydale. He includes a note wishing Buffy well, which Giles thinks is a nice gesture, and which Buffy says is probably so that Jerry can tell people they ended their relationship on good terms when he’s dining out on his stories of Watching the current Slayer.

She unpacks her clothes into the box room, and Giles lets himself believe she is there for good. 

\-----

It’s soon after, when they are walking back from patrol one night, that Buffy says, apropos of nothing, “I don’t do birthdays.”

“Oh?” Giles says. 

Buffy shoots him a suspicious look. “I know you know when it is,” she says. “I’m sure it was in whatever file they gave you on me way back when. And I’m just saying… you seem like a birthday type of guy. So, restrain yourself.”

“I...seem like a birthday type?” Giles isn’t quite sure how to take that. He hadn’t imagined that Buffy would want a fuss, especially given that he doubts her last birthday holds good memories, but this one will be her eighteenth, and he wanted to mark the occasion somehow. Thank goodness he convinced Travers to delay the traditional Cruciamentum test on the grounds that it would cause irreparable damage so soon after a change in Watcher.

Buffy shrugs.

“I’ll take back the cake I bought for tomorrow, then, shall I?” Giles says casually.

Buffy stops on the sidewalk. “There’s cake?”

“There is.”

“Is it chocolate?”

Giles smiles. “Perhaps.”

Buffy starts walking again, hands in pockets, considering. “The cake can stay,” she says.

The next evening, they eat chocolate sheet cake for dinner, despite Giles’ protests that they should really have something with protein and vegetables in it first. Buffy says that frosting is a vegetable, and tries to convince Giles that concepts like cutting the cake and putting it on plates are outdated, and it should be dug straight into with a fork. He relents, and she licks frosting off her fingers and tells him that it hasn’t been the worst day ever.

\-----

As winter starts to fade, the town begins to respond to the Slayer’s presence. For the first time, vampires are being taken out at a faster rate than they can reproduce. They still exist in horrifyingly high quantities, but after weeks of constant slayings, they are beginning to be more cautious in their exploits. The rush to power in the wake of the Master’s death trails off as it becomes clear that whoever replaces him is only likely to draw the wrath of the Slayer. It is far too soon for talk of the curfew being lifted, but Giles sees the potential for Sunnydale to one day rise from the ashes, and each time he watches Buffy take out another demon, pride blossoms in his chest.

The sense of decreasing danger is a danger in itself, though. Giles knows this, knows that they must not become complacent, that they must keep their guard up at all times, and yet, he falls victim to it nonetheless.

One night in early March, he is passing time with Buffy near a fresh grave in the cemetery, waiting for the newly-dead to rise. Buffy is practising round kicks and hook kicks, keeping her muscles warm, and Giles is watching the grave while planning which crystals to use in the next day’s training session. Neither of them are watching the graveyard behind them.

The first thing Giles hears is the crunch of a twig, broken under a heavy footstep, just inches behind him. He turns, but it’s too late; the huge, plate-like hand of the demon hits him hard enough to lift him clear off the ground and throw him across the grave and into the newly erected gravestone. His head smashes against the stone, and he hears Buffy scream his name.

He loses consciousness for a moment, and when he comes to, he sees the body of the demon a few feet away, headless. Buffy is kneeling in front of him, and there’s an expression on her face that he’s never seen before. There are tears in her eyes.

“Giles!” she says, clutching at his shoulders, then touching her hand to his head, her fingers shaking as she feels for blood. Her fingertips come away with only the slightest smudge of red.

“I’m okay,” he says, blinking. His head is throbbing, but he’s had worse before. “Just a bump.”

She pulls him up into a sitting position and continues to run her hands over him, searching for injuries. He catches them in one of his. “I’m okay, Buffy,” he says quietly.

Her face crumples before she gets ahold of herself and swallows. “I thought - when I saw you go down - I thought,” she says, and then her breath catches in a sob and she throws herself at his chest, wrapping her arms around his neck, grasping his sweater in her fists. 

“I need you,” she whispers.

He puts his arms around her, and they sit on the ground of the cemetery for a long, long time.

\-----

Giles wakes the next morning with a mild ache behind his eyes, a small lump at the back of his head and the memory of Buffy clinging to him fresh in his mind. He stretches, pulls on some clothes and pads to the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

Buffy is already there, her back to him, pulling a bowl and a packet of cereal from the cabinets. She glances back at him, brushes her hair out of her face and looks him up and down.

“How’s your head?” she says, voice tight. There are dark circles under her eyes and it looks like she hasn’t slept at all.

“It’s good,” he says. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m great.” She turns away again, and starts pouring cereal into the bowl, spilling much of it on the countertop. She makes a frustrated sound in the back of her throat and tosses the box back into the cabinet, then shuts the door hard.

“Buffy?” Giles says, frowning. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she says. She gets milk from the fridge. “You should rest today. I can patrol alone tonight. And the rest of the week. Maybe forever. You should be here. Safe.” She slops the milk into the bowl, crams it back into the fridge with more force than necessary and then starts opening other cabinets, looking for who knows what.

“Buffy, I’m okay, really,” Giles says. He steps nearer to her, reaches out and grabs her arm, and turns her gently toward him. “Look at me, I’m fine.”

Buffy glares at him, her jaw twitching. “ _I_ was fine,” she snaps, “ _before_. I didn’t need anyone. I was okay by myself. And then you had to come along and make me think I - make me feel - like this. I didn’t ask for this. It’s all your fault.” 

She shrugs out of his grip and turns her back on him, hands shaking. She yanks open another cabinet door, then slams it shut so hard the room reverberates. “What have you done with the sugar?” 

“Buffy, stop. Look at me - Buffy - stop -”

She won’t listen. She pulls open a third door forcefully enough to detach it from one of its hinges.

Giles steps up behind her and slams his hand down on the countertop next to her. “Buffy!”

She turns, and instantly they are face to face, inches apart, Buffy standing in the small space between Giles and the cabinets. 

She lifts up onto her toes, and kisses him.

He pulls back. From surprise, from unpreparedness, from instinct, nothing more. He regrets it immediately.

The expression on her face kills him.

She pushes past him then, forgetting her strength for a moment, and runs. He stumbles, and calls her name, but the only answer he gets is the slam of the front door.

\-----

He stands there, stunned, for a moment, the warmth of her lips lingering on his mouth. Then he moves. He runs to the front door, snatches his keys from the table, shoves his feet into his shoes and rushes from the house.

The courtyard is empty. Beyond it, the road stretches left and right, but he can’t see a trace of Buffy in either direction. He curses. Panic compresses his chest. He forces himself to breathe past it, assesses his options, and goes to get his car. 

He drives all over Sunnydale. On the roads surrounding his apartment, at first, and then spreading out, checking out every area he can think of. He parks up at the school, and checks the library; he parks up again at the place where they first met, and searches the park. He drives to the town center, to the Motor Inn, to the Bronze, to the factory where the Master died. 

He can’t find her, and he can’t bear to think of how much she is hurting. Every second he delays getting to her is another second she spends alone, thinking she has made a mistake.

He wonders if she has already left the town entirely. Would she go back to Cleveland? He will drive to Cleveland if he has to.

He would walk to Cleveland if he had to. 

He thinks of the cemeteries. They have spent enough time patrolling them for her to feel comfortable there. But there are twelve in Sunnydale.

He stops the car, and thinks. And then - he wonders. He closes his eyes, breathes, focuses on Buffy, and reaches. Tries to catch the string that once connected them. Tries to take hold of that invisible thread and follow it to her.

When he opens his eyes, he has a place in mind.

\-----

Buffy is sitting underneath a tree, on the edge of the cemetery where she told him about her mother. She’s leaning against the trunk, her arms wrapped around her knees.

It could be just a lucky guess, that this is the cemetery he chose to come to first. Or not. Either way, it doesn’t matter.

He walks over to her. She has turned her head away, though he knows she has seen him. She brushes at her face with her hand, looks off into the distance.

As he nears her, he sees her feet are bare and dirty. She didn’t even stop on her way out of the house to put on shoes.

He reaches her, and hesitates. He put all his energy into finding her, and none into figuring out what he would say when he did.

She looks up at him, eyes dark, eyeliner smudged.

“You don’t have to do this,” she says.

“Do what?” Giles steps forward, crouches down, and sits next to her under the tree.

“Come and comfort me. Tell me you care about me as a friend. Whatever.” She clenches her hands into fists, stares straight ahead.

“That’s… that’s not what I was going to say,” Giles says.

“You don’t want me.” She says it like a statement, but Giles can hear the question underneath.

He could lie. He could tell her that she’s right. Maybe it would be the noble thing to do, to tell her to find someone her own age, someone who isn’t connected to the world of death and demons that he inhabits. But that is her world too.

And she is young, but she is old enough to risk her life every day and every night, and she is old enough to decide what she wants. If that is him, why should he deny her? She has had so much taken from her, and he could give her something real and bright in the darkness.

He has spent the last weeks pushing down his feelings, refusing to even acknowledge them, determined to be the Watcher that Buffy deserves and nothing more. But his want, his need for Buffy, has been there since the beginning, and not just because she is his Slayer. 

He puts his hand over hers. Lets his thumb brush over her fingers.

“I do,” he says. “Of - of course I do, Buffy.”

Buffy looks up at him, eyes wide with surprise and hope. Then she frowns.

“You didn’t… you didn’t kiss me.” 

“You took me by surprise,” Giles says, gently. 

Buffy bites her lip, catching the scar between her teeth. “Are you just saying this because you want me to stay and be your Slayer?” she asks. “Because I’ll stay anyway. You don’t have to -”

Giles puts his thumb on her lips, and she quiets. He traces the scar. Cups her face in his hand.

“I’m saying it because you’re you. Because you’re strong, and fierce, and you make me laugh, and you care about this world more than you like to admit, and because - because we fit together, and because you’re beautiful.” 

And because she is fiercely independent, and achingly dependent, and fragile, and powerful, and so many other things that he cannot begin to articulate. 

“Of course I want you, Buffy. I want you desperately.”

Her lip trembles under his touch. There are unshed tears in her eyes.

“But,” he makes himself say, “it’s okay if you’ve changed your mind, or you don’t want anything to change, or -”

“Giles,” Buffy says. She leans in, and kisses him. And he kisses her back.

\-----

Months later, Giles stands in the doorway to their bedroom and looks at Buffy. She is stretched out across the bed, taking up far more space than her diminutive stature would suggest she would, dozing as the morning sunlight filters into the room and catches the gold in her hair. Her daily presence still seems like a small miracle to him.

“Your staring is creepy,” she mumbles, and Giles laughs and sits down on the bed next to her. 

“Brought you the newspaper,” he says. Buffy opens one eye and looks at him dubiously.

“They’re lifting the curfew,” Giles says, holding the headline up in front of her eyes. Buffy sits up and takes the paper, scanning the article. She smiles.

“Looks like you might get your better world after all,” she says. She shifts so that her back is to his chest, and tips her head back to kiss him.

“I already have,” he says.


End file.
